Tuesday, April 26, 2011

At Dawn With No Regret

I see my mind
This fibrous clavichord
silhouetted by lavender
in fog of my own misgivings

I reach in and it is all nice
and then the clown puppet
dances on my solitary grave

Oh these decent tendrils
from which smokes
a hallowed venom

Then caught between the dice
it chews at the corners
and puts out a cat-like howl

Some smelt in the kitchen
stewed in non-juice
at the bus stop of last desires

and somehow, still...
I learn to lie in love's manure